


Just Like an Angel

by M_Moonshade



Category: Welcome to Night Vale
Genre: Angel/Demon Relationship, Cecil is Inhuman, M/M, Not exactly AU, Tentacles, Typical Night Vale Weirdness, Wingfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-26
Updated: 2014-03-26
Packaged: 2018-01-17 04:01:58
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,384
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1373215
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/M_Moonshade/pseuds/M_Moonshade
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Cecil receives a bunch of worrying voice mails from Carlos, he charges to the laboratory to investigate and/or save his boyfriend. </p><p>What he finds there is not quite what he expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Just Like an Angel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Mixxy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mixxy/gifts).



> A long, long, long while ago, Mixxy mentioned a need for Night Valian wing kink fics-- and since I'm an addict of wing kink myself, I was happy to comply. I just wasn't particularly speedy about it.

“Hey. Cecil. I just wanted to tell you that I won’t be able to make it to our date tonight. I know I’ve been bad about forgetting to call, and… well… this is me calling. I’m sorry. Something’s just come up, and--”

In the background of the recording there’s the sound of a door slamming open. “Dammit, Carlos! We have our rules for a reason. The gloves and goggles and lab coat aren’t just fashion accessories--”

“I’ll call you when I can,” Carlos finishes in a rush, and the voicemail abruptly ends.

_Next message._

“Cecil. Hey. It’s me. We haven’t found anything. I mean, we have-- we’ve collected a significant amount of data, really-- but nothing that really helps...um...with the current situation. I’ll let you know as soon as we do.”

_Next message._

“Hey, Cecil. I know your show will be ending soon. I just wanted to tell you good night. I probably should have said so last night, too, but I didn’t think-- nevermind. Just… um… good night.”

_Next message._

“Cecil? I don’t think I’ve ever said how much I love the sound of your voice. And how much I love your show. And not just because of your voice, either. It’s… it’s well-written, and interesting, and it means a lot to me, having you to tell me what’s going on in Night Vale. And, you know, it’s your voice, which makes it even better. And that’s… yeah. I just thought I should let you know. And… thank you.”

_Next message._

“Cecil, I realized today, I’ve never told you I love you. And I do. More than anything. I guess I’ve always thought that that sort of thing should be saved for a special occasion. But this is Night Vale. You can’t just wait for the right moment to say something important, because you never know if you’ll still be here when the right moment happens. You have to just… I mean, you need to go out and say it. So that’s what I’m doing. I love you, Cecil. Always. I just wanted you to know that.”

_End of messages._

Cecil all but rips the sound booth’s door out of its hinges on his way out, shouting a quick series of instructions to the latest batch of interns.

Sure, he hasn’t seen Carlos for a few days, but that hasn’t worried him until now. Carlos is a scientists, and he’s busy, and he’s got a lot on his mind. And the fact that he’s gotten sweeter lately-- well, that’s what boyfriends do, isn’t it? Especially if they’re feeling guilty for a missed date.

But Cecil’s self-delusion can only take him so far. He knows a deathbed confession when he hears one.

A high-speed car ride later (thank the Masters for stop sign immunity), he’s pounding on the lab door hard enough to dent the steel.

Behind the door, his sharp ears pick out unfamiliar voices.

“What the hell is that?”

“Oh shit-- it’s Cecil.”

“The radio host?”

“Isn’t he--”

“That’s just a rumor.”

“Let him in.”

“But what about contamination?”

For emphasis, Cecil knocks again.

“We’re not equipped to keep him out. Just let him in already.”

There’s a series of clicks as the door swings wide open. A gaggle of scientists stands in one corner, mostly huddled behind the older woman who gave the order to let him in.

He flashes a sharp-toothed smile. “Good evening. I’m here to see Carlos.”

They cower, though he suspects it’s more a consequence of his presence than an actual understanding of the danger they’re in. Carlos didn’t understand, either, until after they started dating. Only the older woman steps forward.

“He’s right this way. I’ll take you to him.” She leads the way in small, hurried steps; he follows languidly behind her, taking in his surroundings as he walks. She was wrong about being able to keep him out. He spots several sacks of rock salt next to a sensory deprivation chamber; some of that poured into the windows and doors would have done the trick, but he’s not about to tell her that.

Either she was lying to the other scientists, or else someone hasn’t been doing their research.

They move down one corridor and stop at a door not unlike every other door they’ve passed so far, and the scientist knocks.

“Carlos?” she asks softly.

“You can come in, Doctor Magbantay. I’m dressed.” Cecil’s nerves light up at the caramel voice, and the weight of his presence dissipates like fog under sunshine.

The scientist relaxes slightly as she cracks open the door. “Carlos, Mr. Palmer is here to see you.”

“Cecil?” The way he says it-- all breathless and surprised-- sends a pleasant shiver down Cecil’s back.

“Do you want to speak to him?”

“I--Yes. Let him in.”

Doctor Magbantay swings the door wide. The room is small, not unlike a doctor’s office, and particularly cramped even before Cecil steps inside. A military cot takes up one corner, along with a duffel bag full of clothes and toiletries. Carlos sits on a rolling computer chair, the back disassembled and piled in a heap of spare parts in the far corner. Carlos probably wouldn’t be able to sit in it otherwise: from his shoulders protrude a pair of massive golden-brown wings that stretch at least as long as he is tall in either direction.

When Carlos looks up to see Cecil, they flare out abruptly, and he nearly falls off the chair. He ducks his head and tries awkwardly to fold them-- as if he could possibly hide the enormous appendages behind his (very, very shirtless) back.

(Maybe it’s Cecil’s imagination, but Carlos’ chest has gotten a lot more tone than it was the last time he checked. But he can fawn over his boyfriend later.)

Cecil starts toward him, and immediately Carlos’ eyes flick to Doctor Magbantay, as though for reassurance.

He stops short. “Carlos? Are you all right?”

“I’m stable.” His gaze falls to the floor, apparently as unsatisfied with that answer as Cecil is. Before the radio host can ask, he starts on one of his signature science tirades. “They haven’t shown significant growth in the last ten hours or so, and hopefully that means they’ve stopped developing. And I haven’t lost nearly the amount of body mass that would normally be necessary for spontaneous growth of this nature, so there’s no immediate danger of malnourishment or dehydration-- though the rest of the team wanted to keep an eye on me, just to be safe. The mass just seems to be coming out of nowhere, which is physically impossible, but then, this is Night Vale, and that seems to be well within the realm of normalcy, but it doesn’t exactly give us much to work with.”

He’s so busy talking he doesn’t notice Cecil’s advance until he’s looming over him. One hand cups Carlos’ cheek and tilts his head up to look at him.

“I got your messages,” he says softly.

The sound Carlos makes is as fragile and dry as a discarded eggshell, but it sounds a little like “oh?”

“The way you were talking, I was afraid you’d gotten hurt.” He strokes his thumb over Carlos’ cheek with a fond smile. “You aren’t usually so candid.”

“No,” Carlos says quickly, his eyes darting everywhere around the small room except for Cecil. “No, I’m-- I mean, there was some worry that they wouldn’t stop growing, but it seems they’ve finally reached their mature size which means we--” He screws his eyes shut, forcibly derailing the trail of thought. “I’m just restless, is all. I had to stay in isolation for the first two days while they made sure I wasn’t radioactive or contagious. And after that the wings were growing, and they needed to keep me here for observation. I think I would have gone completely crazy if I didn’t have your show to listen to. Knowing there were still things going on outside this lab, knowing there were still mysteries to investigate that weren’t attached to my spinal column. Knowing I had you.”

He stops short, finally looking Cecil in the eye-- and in his stare there’s something so fragile and desperate that it breaks Cecil’s heart. His wings fold tight against his back.

“I… I do still have you, right?”

Cecil’s mouth opens and closes wordlessly, and he wants to rip at his hair in frustration. He can improvise hours of editorials on a slow news day, but now that he needs to say something, he’s tongue-tied. He would try to communicate with his eyes, or with sign language, or interpretive dance, but Carlos has turned away. When he breaks the silence, he’s practically talking to the corner.

“I mean-- I know I don’t entirely understand how things work in Night Vale-- and things I don’t always understand are normal here-- but that doesn’t mean everything’s normal. And I haven’t seen anyone like…” His wings flutter helplessly. “And-- I get if this is weird. By your standards. Or if this is something you might not feel comfortable with. And if… if you’d rather not… I mean, I understand. I don’t blame you or anything. But--”

Cecil is one word from running howling into the sand wastes, so he silences Carlos the only way he knows how-- grabbing him by the arms and smothering him with a kiss. It’s sharp and desperate and more forceful than he’s ever been with the scientist, and Carlos squeaks helplessly beneath him.

Footsteps move in behind him.

“Now hold on!” The scientist that let him in is moving toward them, and immediately Cecil tenses. He wants to curl protectively around Carlos and chase away the intruder and be quiet and not hurt anyone and give Carlos whatever space he needs and lash out-- all of it, all at once, and it’s so confusing and overwhelming that he just stays there, unmoving, as Carlos pulls away.

“It’s all right, Doctor Magbantay,” he says quietly. “It’s… fine. Everything’s fine.”

She hesitates. “Are you sure?”

Carlos’ gaze dances from one of Cecil’s eyes to the other, and the smallest smile lights on his face. “I’m sure.” He glances back at her. “Do you think you could…?”

“Of course. I’ll be in the front if you need anything.” A moment later the door clicks shut, followed by the soft clap of practical shoes moving away. Soon even that noise fades, and the small room is bathed in silence.

Slowly Cecil sinks to his knees before him, feeling nauseous and cold. “She thought I was going to hurt you.” It’s not a question.

Carlos sways precariously as his wings flutter behind him. “She was just taking precautions. Scientists have to be ready to consider all possibilities.”

“But it’s not. I wouldn’t hurt you, Carlos. You know that, don’t you?”

“The entire team has been a bit overprotective since this all started.” He jerks his head back to indicate the wings. “When the wings started coming in, Dominic mentioned that I’d look like an angel, and then somebody brought up you being… well, you…”

Cecil raises an eyebrow. “An angel? Have any of them ever actually spoken to Old Woman Josie, because--”

“Outside of Night Vale, people have a bit of a different idea about angels.” He shrugs, and nearly falls into Cecil’s lap. “Sorry. My center of gravity is completely off.”

“Perfectly all right.” To emphasize his point, he nuzzles into Carlos’ thigh. “So do angels where you come from have an allergy to radio hosts?”

“No. Um...” For a few moments, Carlos fidgets, and finally busies himself with scratching Cecil’s scalp. “In a lot of mythology outside of here, angels don’t… er… get along very well… with demons.”

“Really?” Honestly, that strikes Cecil as a bit racist-- and even if there were some cultural differences between angels and demons, he wouldn’t suddenly forget everything he felt about Carlos, even if he did grow ten feet and walk the earth accompanied by a constant chorus of trumpets. “Huh. Well, there’s no need to worry about that, since angels don’t exist.”

“Right.”

Cecil takes Carlos’ hands in his own and rubs small circles into his palm. “I’m glad you had your team looking out for you, dear Carlos. I’m just sorry I couldn’t be here for you.” Because they thought he’d hurt him. The thought sends another wave of nausea through his stomach, and he forces himself out of that train of thought. “When did it happen? Do you know?”

“About a hundred and fifty hours ago. More or less. You know how time is in Night Vale…” He fidgets and the wings flap, swirling already-scattered papers across the little room. “I got hit by sentient lightning.”

“Like Michael Sandereaux?”

Carlos shifts his weight uncomfortably, and the wings flap again to compensate the change. “Yeah. Like him. We were worried for a while that I was going to grow a second head, too. I guess this isn’t the worst that could happen.”

No. Cecil had his own fears about the worst that could happen. “Are you all right?”

“A bit… um… sore?” He’s flushing crimson. “These things are heavy. I mean, it’s fascinating to feel so acutely which muscle groups are responsible for matters of balance and stability, but it hurts after a while.”

Cecil leans over him. “Where does it hurt?”

“Everywhere.” It takes Carlos a moment to catch on. “Oh. Um. My-- um-- pectorals. A bit.” He indicates feebly at the now significantly more toned muscles in his upper chest. Cecil flashes him a grin and sweeps his fingers over the hard planes. Carlos wasn’t kidding-- there are knots here that would make an Eagle Scout proud. He kneads at the bunched-up muscle, and Carlos nearly falls out of his chair.

“Did I hurt you?” Cecil asks, pulling his hands back.

“No. Please, keep going. That felt…” The words melt into a groan as Cecil resumes the rubdown, and the sound goes directly to his groin.

“How else have you been feeling?” he asks, his voice dipping into the deep register of his radio voice.

“I’m… uh…” In the absence of words, Carlos leans down to kiss him-- perhaps too far, because he overbalances and nearly falls on top of Cecil. It takes some fumbling to get him upright again, not that Cecil minds having an excuse to touch him all over.

“Sorry about that,” he mumbles, straightening himself once again. “I’m still getting the hang of-- _sweet statistical outliers!_ ” The exclamation becomes a hiss as Cecil slides his hands down Carlos’ thighs and starts kneading there. He may not be a scientist, but he’s not brainless: those heavy wings are going to mean a lot of extra weight on those poor, overtaxed legs. And judging by the hissing and groaning and sweet sciencey swears coming from Carlos’ mouth, he isn’t too far off.

“You know,” Cecil muses. “Maybe you’d be more comfortable lying down.”

“I wouldn’t be able to lie on my back-- these things get in the way.” The wings give another haughty flap of annoyance. He almost falls once again, but this time Cecil steadies him with a hand to his waist.

“It would give me better access to these hamstrings back here.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively and runs one hand across the back of Carlos’ thigh. The tremor that runs through his lovely scientist sends his tattoos squirming across his skin.

“Just give me a second, it’s kind of--” Carlos braces one hand against the countertop and another against the wall, his biceps straining with the effort of lifting and balancing all that new weight.

“Do you need help?” Cecil asks, extending a hand.

“Don’t worry, I’ve got enough practice sitting and standing to have the hang of it by…” His eyes fall on the bed and he blanches. “On second thought, maybe you could help me lay down?”

The process of descent is slow-- first he lowers himself to his knees at the foot of the cot, and only then does he lean forward, bracing himself against its wire frame. Even with his precautions, he looks one wrong move away from tumbling face-first into the cot, which looks about ready to flip over on him. Carefully Cecil pushes down on the other side of the makeshift bed to counterbalance to Carlos’ weight. Two thick tentacles unfurl from his back and wrap around his boyfriend’s shoulders to support some of that extra weight. More tentacles manifest, some of them holding the cot in place, others bracing against the floor and walls to steady him. Carlos settles face-first onto the cot, his wings stretched out on either side of him, and he lets out a long sigh.

“Do you feel better, my Carlos?” Cecil murmurs.

“Mm-hmm…”

“Good.”

He knows he’d been talking about those lovely thighs, but he’s already here. His tentacles wrap around his biceps, squeezing and soothing like a pair of indecisive boa constrictors. His hands sink into the muscles of his shoulder, as stiff and taut as steel cable, and gradually works away the tension there. All the while he’s careful to touch only skin and stay far away from the feathers. It’s horribly impolite to manhandle someone else’s spontaneously generated body parts, even if that person is your boyfriend. Even if those feathers look like they could have been made of spun gold and amber, with tiny, downy feathers closer to his spine.

“ _Ceeeeeecil_ …” Dear masters, that groan is absolutely obscene. “Where in the world did you learn to-- _ungh_ \-- to do that?”

“Youtube, actually.” He chuckles awkwardly, entirely too aware of the tightness in his pants. “Though there was a class at the community college a few years back on erotic massage, and I nearly went to that. But then there was an outbreak of hemorrhagic disease in the local deer population, and I got called out to do a story on how that would affect real estate markets in the coming year, and…” And he’s babbling, but he’s not entirely sure Carlos cares, considering the string of blissful groans and hums coming from his scientist. The muscles in his shoulders and arms had finally relaxed, and so Cecil plants a tender kiss on the back of his head and extracts himself.

It takes some testing before he’s willing to put his weight on the cot, but it’s pretty durable, and he braces a pair of tentacles against the floor, just to be safe. Cecil pays loving attention to his thighs, his calves, the small of his back (which could use a team of masseurs all by itself), beaming as each touch earns him another trail of euphoric groans.

“How’s that?” he purrs, if only to hear him put it into words.

“Cecil-- Cecil, you’re perfect. You’re absolutely perfect.”

“Where else do you want me?” He rubs his knuckles into the tops of Carlos’ thighs, just below the point where they meet his ass, and delights in the half-whimper that follows.

“My, um-- do you think you could get-- ooh yes-- my wings?”

Cecil hesitates. “Are you sure?”

The wings in question twitch and ruffle. “Sorry-- is that weird?” The bliss washes out of his voice, replaced by self-conscious concern. “You don’t have to--”

“No, no, it’s all right,” Cecil says, sliding a hand against Carlos’ back to reassure him. “It’s just, usually people don’t like having new bodyparts touched. They can be pretty sensitive. I wouldn’t want to hurt you.”

“You won’t.” Carlos turns his head as much as he can and glances at Cecil over his shoulder. “I trust you, Cecil.”

Cecil’s face heats; a softer, gentler warmth blooms in his chest. “Then let me take a look.”

He moves slowly at first, trailing his fingertips along the feathers. A shudder sweeps down the wings, and he pulls back like he’s been burned. “Are you all right?”

“Fine,” Carlos gasps. “Just… ah… sensitive. Like you said. Caught me by surprise. Keep going.”

Cecil bites his lip and tries again, trying not to freak out at the twitches and spasms underneath his fingers as he acquaints himself with the elegant structure of the wings. Underneath the feathers, the muscles are thick and powerful, but he can’t tell for sure what’s supposed to be taut and what isn’t.

“Tell me what you need, Carlos,” he says, running his hand over the silky feathers once more.

“Right where the wings connect to my back. Right--” He makes a sound that’s at once guttural and keening as Cecil rubs at the point of connection. “Yes-- _oh yes_ \-- just like that--”

“Does that feel good, my Carlos?”

He’s answered with a sound that has more in common with a gurgle than any words he’s familiar with.

Feeling adventurous, he wraps his tentacles around Carlos’ legs and back, picking Carlos up to press patterns into his overworked chest. More emerge to support and stretch those lovely wings. Carlos is entirely off the cot now, supported and enveloped by Cecil’s touch. Normally he’d be worried about overwhelming his boyfriend, but the look on Carlos’ face is beatific, almost holy in its radiance.

“Oh Carlos,” he whispers, pulling him close against his chest. He wraps one arm around a wing; the other slides low toward his groin. “Carlos, please…”

There aren’t any words in answer-- just a hand wrapping around Cecil’s and pressing it against that glorious hardness.

Cecil kisses his neck, his hair, his shoulder-- any part of him he can reach. More tentacles slide down to relieve Carlos of his pants.

“Oh Carlos,” he continues, whispered like a prayer. “My beautiful, wonderful, perfect--” A tentacle unzips his own pants and liberates his cock, but he pays no more attention to it. One hand is wrapped around Carlos’ member, the other is caught in a handful of feathers. Carlos’ head is thrown back in ecstasy, his mouth wide in a silent cry, his breath hard and gasping. And Cecil wants-- he wants so badly but he can’t find the words, there’s no more room in his mind for language beyond worship and praise and _Carlos Carlos Carlos_ \--

He comes so hard his legs buckle beneath him, only barely catching himself before they both fall. His tentacles squirm and slide, now metaphorically boneless as well as physically, and he slides to his knees. Carlos-- still on his feet, still glorious, still hard and beautiful and not yet finished-- turns to face him, his honey eyes alight with concern. The idea of leaving him unsatisfied is intolerable-- blasphemous-- and Cecil surges forward to take that lovely length into his mouth. He doesn’t have the strength to do much, but Carlos is thrusting into his mouth.

 _Fuck me_ , he begs with his eyes, staring up at the divine being above him. _Fuck me. Use me-- take me, I’m yours._

His hair is whipped wild by the wind of beating wings, his ears are ringing with the sound of his own name called over and over again, his mouth-- oh masters, the _taste_ of him--

And all at once his hips stutter and he’s in so deep Cecil almost chokes and he’s pouring hot and thick and salty-sweet down his throat, and Cecil swallows it down until there’s nothing left to take. He’s recovered by now-- at least, recovered enough to catch Carlos as he reels and ease him into his arms. He tucks Carlos’ head into the crook of his neck, his ruffled hair tickling his cheek, his wings draped around them like an enormous, feathery quilt.

“I missed you,” Carlos murmurs into his shoulder.

“I missed you too, my Carlos. My beautiful, perfect Carlos…”

The scientist hums contentedly and snuggles deeper into his chest. His bare legs are prickling with goosebumps, and Cecil wraps a few tentacles tenderly around them for warmth.

“So…” Carlos murmurs. Cecil didn’t even realize he’d been starting to doze until he’s drawn out of the half-sleep.

“Hmm?”

“These wings.” As if for emphasis, the new appendages pull a little tighter around the two of them. “Do you like them?”

“They’re a part of you, Carlos. That makes them perfect.” It doesn’t hurt how very pretty they are, or how Cecil can make a delighted little shiver run down Carlos’ spine when he strokes his palm down the golden-brown feathers. “You’re as beautiful with them as you were without them.”

“I was thinking about… keeping them.” The last words seem to lodge in his throat, but as soon as they’re out, they’re followed by a tumult. “This is a unique opportunity for scientific study-- the popular assumption is that a human body couldn’t actually support wings, and there’s so much I could learn from this-- the necessary acclimation of pre-existing musculature alone is enough material to fill a research journal, and that’s to say nothing of potential long-term side-effects and the possibility of flight and--”

Cecil pulls back just enough to kiss his cheek. “That sounds neat,” he says warmly. “I know an excellent seamstress in Old Town that can alter your clothes to fit properly. She did all Michael Sandereaux’s after he grew a second head.”

“Oh.” Carlos blinks, surprised. “You think that would work?”

“Unless you’d rather go shirtless.” A sly smile spreads across Cecil’s face. “You might have some trouble with sunburn, but I wouldn’t mind getting you all slick and covered with aloe...”

“I was thinking sunscreen, actually,” Carlos says. “But that works too.”

“Will you still be staying here?” Cecil asks, rearranging his tentacles to get more comfortable. “Because I’ve been needing a new bed forever now, and I’ve been looking for an excuse to upgrade to a king-size.”

“Oh, thank Newton.” Carlos buries his face in Cecil’s neck again. “I don’t think I can stand to sleep on that cot another night.”

* * *

And that’s how it goes.

_Once upon a time, a demon found an angel (or something very much like one), and, seeing perfection, he fell at his feet and worshiped him. There was no battle, no fields of Armageddon, no four horsemen-- just passion and sweet words and cuddling._

And somewhere, far away and racing at the speed of light, a sentient arc of lightning patted itself on the proverbial back, satisfied that it had yet again prevented the apocalypse.


End file.
